


Keeping Clean

by Yatzstar



Series: The Cat With the Dragon's Voice [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 10:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15579561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzstar/pseuds/Yatzstar
Summary: Cicero cares more about keeping the Night Mother clean than himself, so it's up to the Listener and company to take matters into their own hands. Not quite a crackfic, but don't expect it to take itself too seriously.





	Keeping Clean

**Author's Note:**

> I had SO much fun writing this.
> 
> For anyone who hasn't read [Sun of My Soul,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14672859/chapters/33899076) just a heads-up that my Dovahkiin can only speak in dragon, and mostly uses sign language to communicate.

Babette’s reading was rudely interrupted by the sound of frantic footsteps. The vampire looked up in surprise as Cicero burst into her room, halting at the sight of her. Babette was equally confused and amused—the jester was missing his signature flamboyant tunic and hat, as well as his shoes, leaving only his trousers to the imagination.

“Don’t tell her poor Cicero is here!” The disheveled Keeper pleaded, fear apparent in his voice. He ran to the vampire’s wardrobe and climbed inside, shutting himself in the cramped space. Babette bit her lip to stop a cackle from escaping as more footsteps sounded in the hall.

Next to appear was Ma’joraa, the Listener herself, sleeves rolled up and gripping Cicero’s tunic in one fist, her tail lashing irately. She halted in the doorway and looked about the room, hands on her hips.

 _“Deinmaar nu golt?”_ She demanded. Babette could not understand the dragon tongue, but the calico Khajiit’s tone was enough to convey her meaning. _Where is he?_

“Oh, Cicero?” The girl grinned evilly. “He’s hiding in the closet.”

“Thanks a lot, damnable un-child!” Came the jester’s muffled complaint. The Listener marched to the wardrobe and flung it open, revealing the scrawny madman. He tried to lunge past her, but Ma’joraa locked her arms around his chest, digging in her heels. Babette dodged the entangled pair as they staggered into the wall, the Khajiit spitting curses in _dovahzul_ and Cicero crying to the Night Mother for help.

 _“Vulzeymah!”_ Ma’joraa barked, struggling to keep the Imperial restrained as he thrashed like a landed fish. A spectral figure melted through the wall then, the ghost of Lucien Lachance grabbing the Keeper’s legs, and together Speaker and Listener lifted the jester bodily between them. Babette could scarcely make it to the door for laughing, leaning out into the hallway.

“Nazir!” She shouted over Cicero’s frantic cries for help, “Nazir, wherever you are—oh, my gods, you have to come and see this!”

 _“Kiirunslaad, nid!”_ Ma’joraa protested, but the jester’s wild struggles forced her to concentrate on keeping him restrained as she and Lucien dragged him into the corridor.

“Cruel, cruel Listener, why must you do this to poor Cicero?!” The red-haired man wailed, “What did he do to deserve this?”

Ma’joraa could not sign a reply, so Lucien answered for her, his booming baritone echoing in the hall. “The Listener has decreed that you will bathe, jester!”

“Oh, thank the gods!” Babette exclaimed through her laughter, “Cicero, you care more about keeping the Night Mother clean than yourself. If I may be so blunt, you’re starting to reek.”

“You’re one to talk, corpse-breath!” The Keeper shot back, before resuming his struggles.

“By the sands, what’s all that noise?”

 _“Vulzeymah, vosaraan!”_ The Listener ordered Lucien, and the two increased their efforts as Nazir appeared at the opposite end of the hall. Babette ran to the Redguard, wiping tears from her amber eyes.

“They’re—they’re trying to give Cicero a bath,” The vampire informed him breathlessly, hardly able to speak for laughing. “And the poor fool is having none of it.”

Nazir gave a hearty guffaw at the spectacle before him. “I’m surprised the entire Pale isn’t knocking at our door with the racket he’s making! Listener, Speaker, need any help there?”

The Khajiit and the specter had managed to wrestle the flailing Cicero into the Listener’s quarters, where they had prepared a washbasin. Lucien caught the jester in a headlock while Ma’joraa blocked Nazir and Babette in the doorway.

 _“Nid aak!”_ The Dragonborn insisted, glaring at the two troublemakers. _No help!_

Nazir grinned wolfishly. “What’s that? I can’t understand you—did you say you do want our help?”

 _“Nid, nid!”_ Ma’joraa flapped Cicero’s tunic at the two like an apron, shooing them away. _“Kos gut! Pogaas Deinmaar paak nu!” Begone! The Keeper is embarrassed enough as it is!_

Redguard and vampire retreated, still laughing as the Listener slammed the door vehemently. The Khajiit knew they would eavesdrop, but there was little that could be done about that.

 _Alright Cicero,_ Ma’joraa signed, turning back to the Keeper with an exasperated huff, _into the tub with you. I will scrub the grime from you myself if I must._

“The Listener will do no such thing!” The jester protested, trying and failing to squirm from Lucien’s headlock. “Poor Cicero can survive without a bath!”

 _Yes, but the rest of us might not,_ the Khajiit retorted. _Lucien, like we planned._

The specter released Cicero just long enough for Speaker and Listener to grab one arm each, dragging the hapless Keeper backwards and sitting him in the tub with a splash, still with his trousers on.

“It’s freezing!” The jester wailed, his long legs dangling over the side of the basin.

“It would have been warm if you hadn’t wasted so much time complaining and running away, fool!” Lucien scolded, overturning a bucket of water onto Cicero’s head. The Keeper spluttered, pulling dripping crimson hair away from his face to glare murderously at Ma’joraa, who squatted by the tub.

 _The more you struggle, the longer this will take,_ the Khajiit signed. _How about this: if we can get you cleaned up in peace, I’ll go into town and get you three fresh-baked sweetrolls and a carrot. How does that sound?_

“Hah! Bribery will not undo this injustice you’ve visited upon poor Cicero!”

 _Well, if you think of something that will, feel free to let me know,_ the Listener replied with a scowl. _Otherwise, it’s your fault if soap gets in your eyes._

As Ma’joraa stood to fetch the soap and rag, Lucien’s keen gaze noticed the Keeper’s wiry form tensing, drawing his legs into the basin and coiling to spring. The Speaker lifted a spectral eyebrow, but decided not to say anything.

The instant the Khajiit’s back was turned, Cicero lunged. He seized her hips, pulling her backward into the tub with a screech of dismay. Water sloshed across the stone floor as Lucien roared with laughter.

“If Cicero is to be wet and miserable, then the Listener will be wet and miserable too!” The jester declared, folding his arms across his narrow chest. “Now, we’re even.”

 _“Tahrodiis mey!”_ Ma’joraa cried indignantly, chest-deep in water and thoroughly drenched. Cicero hadn’t been kidding—the temperature was on the low end of lukewarm, made only worse as it soaked into her fur. She couldn’t stay angry with him for long however, the sheer comicality of the situation was too great to ignore. What Babette and Nazir must have been thinking she could only imagine, with only sound to tell them what was happening.

 _“Hi los wuth fah daar,”_ The Khajiit chided halfheartedly, splashing water at the Keeper. _You’re too old for this._

Cicero just gave her an impish grin. “Sorry Listener, Cicero can’t understand you!”

“Bah!” Ma’joraa splashed him again. He retaliated, and their laughter joined Lucien’s as a mini-splash battle ensued, heedless of the water that spilled onto the floor.

Just outside in the corridor, Babette and Nazir watched a few rivulets trickling from under the stout oaken door. The vampire had clamped both hands over her mouth to stifle her giggles, but there was little need—the commotion from inside the room drowned out any noise that escaped.

“Dear children, I must thank you,” Lucien managed at length, attempting to compose himself once more. His hood had fallen back, exposing his ponytail and ghostly features, the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile. “It has been long since I have laughed so.”

Ma’joraa twitched droplets from her whiskers. _That begs the question,_ she signed with a smirk as the specter retrieved the forgotten soap and rag. _What mischief did the Cheydinhal initiates get up to in your day?_

“Mischief?” The Speaker echoed, his expression turning deadly serious, “Oh, no, dear sister, back then such things were unheard of! The only smiles seen were when we became coated in the blood of a fulfilled contract. Only then would the Dread Father grant us the privilege of laughter.”

For a heartbeat, Ma’joraa almost believed him. She glanced over at Cicero, who looked just as incredulous as she, then back to Lucien. The Speaker smiled then, and she realized.

 _“Dreh ni fun lo,”_ She chided, flicking a few drops of water at him, but they passed right through his ghostly form. Lucien chuckled as he handed her the soap and rag.

“If the Keeper is willing to sit still, I will tell you both a story to pass the time,” He suggested.

Ma’joraa turned to Cicero, an eyebrow arched expectantly. The scrawny madman sat back, still chest-deep in the water, and gave her a smug smile. “Now that we’re even, Cicero is yours to command, my Listener!”

Gratefully, Ma’joraa soaked the rag and set to work. She could only imagine how silly they both looked, her still fully-clothed and Cicero still with his trousers on, sitting in the washbasin. As the water became murky with soapsuds, their chatter was all but eclipsed by Lucien’s baritone filling the room.

 “Let me tell you of the time when a certain dear Silencer of mine spiked Vicente’s ale with moon sugar…”

**Author's Note:**

> Vulzeymah = 'Dark brother,' nickname for Lucien  
> Kiirunslaad = 'Child eternal,' nickname for Babette  
> Nid = 'No'  
> Vosaraan = 'Hasten/do not delay'  
> Tahrodiis mey = 'Treacherous fool'  
> Dreh ni fun lo = 'Don't tell lies'


End file.
